


Restidiv

by DreamingAngelWolf



Series: Red Stained Souls [2]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied Memory Alteration, M/M, Memory relapse, Minor Character Death, Red Room, Red Room!Bucky, Red Room!Clint, Relapse, a lot of Russian sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you house the world's deadliest assassin duo in your halls, the last thing you want is for one of them to revert back to the ruthless killer they were before you took them in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restidiv

**Author's Note:**

> This was written due to the great response I got from [The Touch of Winter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2420948), and people seemed really keen to read more about Clint and Bucky in this 'verse. So, against all my better judgement, here's more! :D
> 
> Note: there is a lot of Russian in this story. Sad to say I can only rely on Google Translate in instances like these, so if anybody wants to step in with some better translations, by all means, let me know! (Translations are in the endnotes.)

Zima wakes up without warning. He’s in a gymnasium of sorts, a sleek punching bag hanging in front of him, and he stares at it, confused. The clear advancement in time since his last usage not unfamiliar, but waking up already in place to begin training? That’s new. In fact, as he looks around, he quickly realises that he doesn’t recognise the gymnasium at all – is it part of the Red Room? Department X? Another KGB facility? But if it is, then where are his handlers? Where’s Yastreb? Why did he wake up here, instead of on the table? 

Deciding something’s clearly gone wrong with his retrieval process, Zima turns away from the gymnasium to find a handler. He picks up a shirt on the way out, noticing as he tugs it on that his torso is already damp with sweat, adding to his concern. His first problem, however, occurs to him when he steps through the door and sees no-one, merely an empty white corridor. That, he deduces, rules out the Red Room, whose establishments live up to the name’s implications décor-wise, which means he must be somewhere in a Department X facility. Beginning to walk, he thinks perhaps he’s here on demonstration again – to the KGB maybe, or whoever the President is these days (if it isn’t still Gorbachev). 

And yet, the more he walks down empty corridors, and the more he thinks about his situation, the less sense it makes; he was alone, he was nowhere near his cryostasis chamber, there isn’t a handler in sight, and Yastreb is nowhere to be found. His suspicion that he’s not where he thinks is cemented when he passes two armed men and catches sight of a strange emblem on their uniform: white and resembling an eagle. He’s not in Department X. He isn’t even in Russia. 

Yastreb. 

Hatching out a plan, Zima continues to follow the corridors until he comes across another individual. He waits until she’s passed before spinning round and throwing her against the wall, pinning her in place with his own body, his metal hand gripping the back of her neck. The woman tries to wriggle free, but he traps her arms between her back and his front, squeezing her neck and twisting until she gasps into the wall. 

“Where is he?” he growls, going for English as a common language. 

“Who?” 

“My friend.” 

“I don’t know.” Zima leans on her shoulders as he manipulates the angle of her head again, and she whimpers before crying, “Try the recreation floors!” 

He eases up a little. “And how do I get there?” Once he has his directions, he snaps her neck to make sure she won’t immediately raise the alarm, leaving her body after taking her card and a pen, the only thing she carried that could be utilised as a weapon. She told him to take an elevator up to the sixth floor, and he takes the opportunity to go over his basic plan of escape and develop back-ups depending on Yastreb’s state. Contacting their handlers could prove difficult, especially because he has no idea whether he’s on a mission or not, and that lays out a whole new set of problems alone: what if he’s broken their cover? Jeopardised Yastreb’s life? Alerted the enemy to the Red Room’s interest? He’ll be punished if that’s the case, and Zima ignores shelves those what ifs for the time being. Yastreb might be in the same boat as him anyway, in which case the whole mission needs to be aborted because there’s something wrong with their programming. The programming is a priority. 

When Zima finally reaches the correct floor, armed with only a pen and his combat skills, he’s once again unnerved by the lack of personnel. True, this is a recreational floor, but it’s disturbingly quiet, as if nobody’s taking time to relax (even he and Yastreb have that luxury). It’s not enough to make him lower his guard, though, and he approaches the first door on silent feet, listening intently. He hears music, the sound of someone humming along, so he palms the pen and quietly lets himself in. 

It appears to be a kitchen, with shiny sideboards, sleek cupboards above and below them on the walls, and a large island in the middle. A huge fridge hums in one corner. The man inside is not like the guards or the woman he saw downstairs. He’s not in uniform for starters, and Zima would be a fool not to notice his muscular build. His hair is short and blonde, like Yastreb’s, and he thinks the woman got confused by the two of them. This man, whoever he is, is not Zima’s friend, and he’s about to leave without incident until the figure sees him. And smiles. “Hey Buck,” he says, turning back to some food set up on the counter. “Finished already?” 

Zima frowns. Is Buck his cover name? “Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat. How does he ask where Yastreb is when he doesn’t know their cover names? The blonde man is looking at him expectantly. “Sorry,” he says, “you’re not the blonde I was expecting to find here.” 

The American chuckles. It doesn’t sound convincing. “Right, of course. Clint’s in the pool room with Natasha, I think.” 

Zima nods. “Thank you.” 

“Is everything alright?” 

Turning in the door, he smiles. “Everything’s fine. I just have a question for him.” 

The blonde man accepts this, but goes on to ask, “Well when you’re done, maybe the three of us could do something together? A movie, or pool, or some sparring even?” 

“Sounds good,” Zima says, and leaves before another word can be said. It’s only as he’s striding away that he kicks himself for not thinking to find out where this pool room is. That soon becomes irrelevant – an alarm starts screeching above his head, and he alters his course. The alarm is undoubtedly because of him, and he thinks he’ll have an advantage if he can find a way onto the roof, but there’s no sign of stairs anywhere and the elevator won’t respond. He’s about to pry open the doors when he hears a shout, and armed guards are suddenly running towards him. 

Taking no chances, he runs. With any luck, he’ll find Yastreb on his way, and the two of them can work out how to escape together. The plan is thwarted once again, however, when more members of this American organisation – S.H.I.E.L.D, perhaps – appear in front of him. Fighting his way out looks like his only option. The agents are sensible enough to forgo using guns in the confined space of the corridor, and he’s surprised at how good they are in hand-to-hand, but despite the fact that he can’t do more than put them out of action temporarily they’re still easy opponents; and with each blow he trades with them he tries to formulate contingencies, what to do if he fails, what to do if he succeeds, ways he can make them all stop – 

“Stop!” 

Kicking away his current assailant, Zima backs up at the sound of Yastreb’s voice, noting warily how the Americans do the same. “Yastreb,” he calls, not taking his eyes off them, “Ya byl skomprometirovan.” 

He senses Yastreb behind him. “What?” The use of English is understandable – just because Zima’s blown his cover doesn’t mean Yastreb has to. Hopefully, none of these agents know Russian. 

“Tam v vine v moyey programmirovaniya,” he continues, distantly wondering why nobody’s trying to apprehend him still. “Vy dolzhny pomoch’ mne vybrat’sya.” 

A hand touches his shoulder, guiding him round until he’s facing Yastreb (and the sight of him makes Zima’s heart leap, even knowing they’ll likely be separated again in a matter of moments). He looks worried. “Bucky?” 

Zima stays alert. “Ya zabyl missiyu,” he explains. “Nashi obrabotchiki dolzhny znat’ –” 

“My ne na missii.” 

Thinking he misheard, Zima blinks. “Chto ty imeyesh’ v vidu?” 

Yastreb frowns, standing in front of Zima with both hands on his shoulders. “Chto eto posledneye, chto vy pomnite? Pered segodnya?” he asks. 

Zima glances at their audience, whispering, “Vy ne dolzhny –” 

“Otvet’te na vopros.” 

Yastreb rarely commands him to do anything, so Zima swallows his bitterness and complies. “Ya ponmyu…” They’d spent the evening before returning to base in a French hotel, revelling in the sensation of knowing one another, of loving, and knowing what the other loved in an intimate manner. It had been a night of long, slow kisses, of gentle touches on exposed skin, of the same words repeated in all the languages they knew, spoken with smiles and with tears – but Zima can’t say that. If anyone here does speak Russian, they’ll use that against them; so he backtracks a little further. “Théodore Annaud,” he says, “Frantisya, 1989.” 

The colour drains alarmingly from Yastreb’s face. “Oh no…” 

Confused and annoyed by his antics, Zima flashes a glare at the Americans still watching them. “Vidite li vy seychas? Ya dolzhe vernut’sya, bystro.” 

“Zima,” he says calmly, waiting until Zima actually looks at him again. The hands on his shoulders tighten. “We aren’t with the Red Room anymore.” 

“What?” a voice to Zima’s left says, and they turn to see the blonde man he found earlier stood amongst the agents, a shorter red-haired woman – the Black Widow, he remembers – next to him. 

Yastreb answers him; “He’s the Winter Soldier again,” he says, and Zima stares at him. “Something’s flipped his memory back.” 

“Pochemu vy govorite s nimi?” 

“They’re our friends.” 

“Oni amerikantsa!” 

“So are we.” Yastreb’s hands move to cup his face, and Zima resists the urge to push them away. They’re never affectionate in front of others – that would spell death for them. But Yastreb looks into his eyes, outwardly calm, and says softly, “My name is Clint. Yours is Bucky.” 

What? “Net… U nas net imem.” 

“We do, and we’re –” He turns his head suddenly. “Steve?” 

“I’m going to get the cube,” the blonde from the kitchen responds. He’s already walking away. 

Yastreb looks panicked. “No, Steve, don’t! Not the cube!” 

“Kub?” Zima echoes. 

“It worked before –” 

“It hurt before!” Yastreb says, a note of urgency in his voice. “He might be able to remember on his own.” 

“Ya ne ponimayu.” Something blue flickers across his mind’s eye, and Zima instinctively flinches away from it. “Yastreb, chto proiskhodit?” 

“Bucky, my name is Clint – Steve, do not get that cube!” 

“It might be the only way, Clint.” 

“Yedinstvennyy sposob sdelat’ chto?” His head hurts, and he’s vaguely aware of the Black Widow clearing away the regular agents. An electric blue continues to flash across his vision. 

“Give him some time!” 

“Kak vy znayete etikh lyudey?” 

“I tried that before – you both nearly killed me!” 

“Kto Clint i Bucky?” 

“This is different!” 

“Yastreb…” His head hurts so much. The pain has come from out of nowhere, but there’s a ringing in his ears and the blue light is there whenever he blinks. He holds on to Yastreb for support. “Chto so mnoy ne tak?” 

“Your name is Bucky Barnes,” Yastreb says, stroking his thumbs over Zima’s cheekbones. “You were born here, in America, and you fought for the US Army in the Second World War.” Zima whimpers, the noise in his head increasing as Yastreb talks; “You were captured by the Russians in 1945 and they removed your memories. They gave you a new arm, trained you to become an assassin, gave you the title Winter Soldier –” 

“Stop –” 

“They did the same thing to me, but a few months ago, we were rescued.” 

“Net, my ne –” 

“We’re with S.H.I.E.L.D now,” he continues, “trying to right all the wrongs we’ve done under Karpov and Lukin’s control, all the blood we’ve spilled for the worst reasons. We’re not Russian, Bucky, we never were. We’re on the good side now.” 

Zima screws his eyes shut, unable to dispel the blue light burned onto his retinas. He holds onto Yastreb’s wrists as if his life depends on it. “Bol’no…” This is just like the chair. 

“I know,” Yastreb whispers, resting their foreheads together, “but it’ll be okay. I promise.” 

“Yastreb.” 

“Clint,” he says, sounding desperate. “Come on, James, please…” 

It stops. The blue, the pain, the confusion, it all vanishes. Bucky raises his head, and finds himself staring directly into Clint’s face. “Clint?” 

“Yeah.” The archer grins, relief flooding every muscle. “Yeah, it’s me.” 

“Where are we?” Bucky asks, unsure why they’re on the rec floor when he’d just been in the gym. “Did someth- ah!” 

“Bucky!” 

The pain is blinding. Bucky’s knees give out instantly, and he can barely register the hands on him as he watches himself leave the gym, attack Lisa, kill her, fight the other agents, trying to kill them, and thank god he failed because the knowledge of what he did to Lisa is too much. 

***

Bucky wakes up to a dark room. His room. He’s in bed, the covers pulled up to his chest. A pair of legs are stretched out next to him. 

“Hey, Bucky.” It’s Clint. “You’re alright, we’re at home,” he says gently as Bucky blinks himself back into full awareness. “You with me?” 

He is – and suddenly he wishes he wasn’t. Without a word, Bucky turns and presses his face against Clint’s hip, clutching at him as he remembers in horrific clarity what he did to Lisa. She was a new addition to the R&D team, had been fascinated by the mechanics of his arm, and was so level-headed and cool when he’d told her about it… 

Clint lets him cry, one hand in his hair, the other resting on his shoulder. It hurts, seeing Bucky like this, but they’d been warned that the effects of the cube were unpredictable. Permanency was never guaranteed, and as much as Bucky’s distressed by what happened Clint is unspeakably grateful the memories came back unaided. A hurting Bucky was preferable to a scared Winter Soldier. He doubts even Natasha could have known how close a call it was up there on the rec floor, how sure Clint had been that Zima would have used force to get them both out — or worse, triggered his own programming. That worries him, the idea he could revert back to being the Hawk’s Eye without warning; he doesn’t want anymore blood on his hands either, friends or otherwise. Imagining what it would be like to find out he’d slaughtered friends and colleagues, he shudders. 

Bucky’s asleep before long. Clint is tempted to follow his lead, but he has more pressing issues to deal with — like a deeply concerned Director Fury. “I want both to undergo a full psych evaluation tomorrow morning.” 

Standing in their S.H.I.E.L.D apartment living room, Clint folds his arms, scowling. “I understand, sir,” he grinds out. 

Fury raises his eyebrow. “Something else you wanna say about that, Barton?” 

“What are you looking to find?” he snaps, concern for Bucky clouding his better judgement. “You don’t think this is a shock to us too? You think it’s gonna happen again? That we’re faking this? That you’ll have to get out the cube?” His voice wavers slightly over that; he’d legitimately panicked when Steve tried to go and retrieve it — it was unpredictable, un-remorseful, and being at its mercy once was enough for a lifetime. 

The one-eyed gaze is unwavering. “Do I need to be concerned about future relapses, Agent Barton?” 

His answer dies on his tongue. There were reasons why the Red Room had intervened as much as they did. They should’ve realised S.H.I.E.L.D would want to do something similar. What’s worse is that Clint knows were he in Fury’s shoes right now he’d be making the same demands. But he has Bucky to think of — always has, always will — and a psych evaluation tomorrow, after what he did, “It’s just too soon, sir. For Bucky, at least; he needs time to —” 

“To relapse again?” 

“No, to come to terms with what happened!” Clint knew just how long that could take. He still felt like it was an ongoing process, and Bucky had just suffered a setback. 

“And how long is that going to take?” Fury asks, stepping forward. “What if I allow Barnes twenty-four hours to recover, and after the twenty-third he becomes the Winter Soldier again? What if during that time the same thing happens to you? What if I hear that alarm telling me my agents are dying because the Winter Soldier and the Hawk’s Eye are slaughtering everyone in their path?” Clint lowers his gaze, recognising the Director’s point but unwilling to concede it. “I don’t have a choice, Barton; the sooner I know the two of you pose no threat to the safety of everyone in this building the better, and quite frankly you should be grateful that I’m even allowing you as much time as I am.” 

Taking the cue, Clint nods. “We are, sir. Thank you.” 

Fury scrutinises him from askew, and Clint refuses to shiver. “0700, Barton,” he orders as he leaves. “You and Barnes.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Back in the bedroom, Clint takes in the sight of Bucky curled around the spot where he’d been sat before Fury appeared, and his heart aches in his chest. Maybe an early evaluation is for the best, for them as much as for S.H.I.E.L.D. Slipping under the sheets as gently as he can, accommodating Bucky when he nuzzles against Clint’s chest, he tries not to think about whether or not a relapse is on the horizon for himself — for either of them — and whispers a promise into Bucky’s hair: “We’re not letting anything take this from us. No stupid mind tricks, no bad rumours, no accidental deaths — we are S.H.I.E.L.D now. Never forget that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Zima = Winter, Yastreb = Hawk  
> 1\. Ya byl skomprometirovan = I've been compromised  
> 2\. Tam v vine v moyey programmirovaniya = There's a fault in my programming  
> 3\. Vy dolzhny pomoch’ mne vybrat’sya = You have to help me out  
> 4\. Ya zabyl missiyu = I forgot my mission  
> 5\. Nashi obrabotchiki dolzhny znat’ – = Our handlers should know -  
> 6\. My ne na missii = We're not on a mission  
> 7\. Chto ty imeyesh’ v vidu? = What do you mean?  
> 8\. Chto eto posledneye, chto vy pomnite? Pered segodnya? = What's the last thing you remember? Before today?  
> 9\. Vy ne dolzhny – = You don't have -  
> 10\. Otvet’te na vopros = Answer the question  
> 11\. Ya ponmyu… = I remember…  
> 12\. Frantisya = France  
> 13\. Vidite li vy seychas? Ya dolzhe vernut’sya, bistro = Do you see now? I must get back, quickly  
> 14\. Pochemu vy govorite s nimi? = Why are you talking to them?  
> 15\. Oni amerikantsa! = They're American!  
> 16\. Net… U nas net imem = No… We don't have names  
> 17\. Kub? = Cube?  
> 18\. Ya ne ponimayu = I don't understand  
> 19\. chto proiskhodit? = what's happening?  
> 20\. Yedinstvennyy sposob sdelat’ chto? = The only way to do what?  
> 21\. Kak vy znayete etikh lyudey? = How do you know these people?  
> 22\. Kto Clint i Bucky? = Who are Clint and Bucky?  
> 23\. Chto so mnoy ne tak? = What's wrong with me?  
> 24\. Net, my ne – = No, we're not -  
> 25\. Bol’no… = It hurts…
> 
> There. Aren't I nice? I didn't even put it all into Cyrillic! (Which, by-the-by, I have the ability to do now >:D yessss)


End file.
